by Tanya Wilde
Wild with want and consumed by desire, he began pushing her back, guiding them both to the bed. Control was no longer an option for him, he understood now, so he just let go. There was no point in holding onto something that was shot to hell anyway.
“Undress me,” he said, his voice low and commanding against her lips.
“Must you always be so bossy?” she murmured, but there was no hesitation in her movements as her fingers instantly appeared to shove his jacket off his shoulders.
“Yes.”
He thought he heard her laugh under her breath as the buttons of his shirt came undone, and Ambrose wasted no time in ridding her of all her clothing. He tugged at her gown, and then at her chemise, until all of her garments were scattered at her feet.
One day he would undress her slowly and with all the sensuality she deserved. Just not tonight. Not after he had longed for this moment ever since the morning after their wedding night.
And Willow didn’t waste any time either. As soon as his shirt hit the floor, her fingers were on the waistband of his breeches.
Ambrose couldn’t stop a groan from escaping when she leaned forward and kissed the ridges of his abdomen.
The moment his breeches were unfastened, he tugged off his boots and stepped out of the confining material, sweeping her up into his arms.
He laid her down on the bed, the mattress dipping with their weight. He took a breath, his eyes searching her face. She was beautiful, her face flushed and eyes glazed with burning hunger. The tightness in his chest deepened and spread. Christ, what this woman did to him.
“Ambrose.”
He smiled at the pleading note in her voice. Even the simple act of her saying his name sent a tingle along his spine. Dropping his head, he trailed kisses along her neck, down to the curve of her breast. He took a nipple into his mouth, his teeth scraping against the tiny bud. Warm and delicious, that was how she tasted. His tongue licked and flicked, and then he sucked harder. She gasped and the sound was sweeter than honey.
He paused, breathing in the scent of her skin—always sweet, always flowery—and tasted some more. He loved her scent. He loved her taste.
“You intoxicate me.”
“More,” she whispered, even as her hand reached down to circle his erection. Ambrose almost went up in flames. His body shuddered, and fire raced up his cock.
“May I touch you there?”
“You ask me that now?” He groaned into her creamy skin. He thought he heard her chuckle. “Don’t ever bloody stop.”
“What happens if I kiss it?”
“You don’t.”
Or I will bloody die.
“I want to kiss you there.”
“No.” He barely managed that one word.
“Please.”
He looked up from lavishing her breasts, planning on kissing her to distraction and away from her current train of thought, but he made the mistake of meeting her gaze.
Her eyes sparkled at him. With mischief. With humor. With bloody determination.
He never stood a chance. He rolled onto his back and took her with him. She giggled in response. Shutting his eyes, he knew he should have just shoved into her right at the start because this, this was pure torture. He could feel her breath on his cock, hovering, looking, and not kissing him.
When it came, the touch of soft lips delicately brushing against the tip of his erection, he swore. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before.
“Have you ever been kissed here before?”
A strangled “no” lodged in his throat.
She kissed him again, and this time her tongue left a trail of blazing heat. Blood surged through his body. The breath slammed out of him. He was dying.
“I’ve never kissed anyone before you,” he admitted.
She stilled. The loss of her was almost too much to bear. Why had he opened his bloody mouth?
He was about to reach for her, eyes fixed on her mouth, when she lowered her lips again, this time more boldly. And she did not stop. She drove him wild, her tongue dragging up the length of him, and her soft lips covering him with kisses. He was wrong. He wasn’t dying before. This is what dying felt like. He could take no more.
Lifting her beneath her arms, he rolled her over and nudged her legs apart with his knee.
She protested, laughing. “I wasn’t done!”
“No more,” he growled.
“Did you not like it?” she asked sweetly.
“I bloody loved it, but I want to be inside you, and if you hadn’t stopped, I’d have shamed us both.”
She wrapped her arms around him. He kissed her throat, her lips, her shoulder; his mouth was everywhere as he pushed inside of her. She pulled him closer still, running her hands up and down his back.
He began to thrust into her then, slowly at first, until his body was no longer his own and his hips rocked at an unrelenting pace. It wasn’t long before she arched beneath him and cried out his name. His own release followed seconds after.
His breathing slowed long before the rapid pace of his heart. The knowledge that his wife would forever be his obsession beat hard against the wall of his chest.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
WILLOW LEANED OVER her husband, drawing soft circles over the rope of muscle on his abdomen. His eyes were closed, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. From what she could see, a pink blush suffused her entire body, likely right up to her untidy mess of hair, which she was certain resembled a pigeon’s nest.
He had never kissed another woman before her.
The admission had been softly spoken, but it had hit her straight in the heart. And she would keep it there, locked tightly within, forever.
“You’re so bloody beautiful.”
Her eyes lifted to his, finding him watching her. She had to swallow to find her voice. “That is only because I’m naked.”
“You are always naked when I’m looking at you.”
Oh.
The thought of him imagining her naked all the time stole the breath from her lungs.
“That sounds rather exhausting.”
A devilish smile curved his lips. “I have quite an active mind.” He traced a finger over her calf. “Your skin is so delicate. So soft.”
Willow moaned, barely recognizing the soft purring sound that emerged from her throat. “You’re so wicked.”
This man, her husband, had in a mere week stirred her more than anyone she had ever known. God help her, her mind and body ached for him. It was impossible to shake away the images of all the wicked things she wanted him to do to her. Even knowing he was a controlling, rule-obsessed man. Even knowing he was stubborn to a fault and that it would take a small miracle to get him to change his mind about her sister, about the rules, about how she should live her life. Even knowing all that, she still craved him fiercely. And if that made her wicked, then so be it.
He was once again on top of her, one large hand cupping her breast, his hard sex nestled against her core. He teased her nipples to tight arousal.
“We cannot possibly do it again,” she murmured as his tongue circled the sensitive bud, sucking gently.
The way his eyes darkened at her declaration caused awareness to sizzle along her every nerve ending. “I beg to disagree.”
She squirmed beneath him, and he entered her in one smooth stroke. A soft gasp pushed through her lips at the pleasure that tightened low in her belly.
Willow sifted her fingers through the thick, silky strands of his hair. And she knew then, wrapped in his arms, that she could be content forever there. The challenges they faced, the disagreements they held, paled in comparison to the glory of this moment. She sketched the image of them, just like this, in her mind and tucked it away into her heart. Perhaps this could be a beginning.
Tension coiled deep as he rocked inside her, thrusting harder, and harder, until she soared over the edge.
Later, when the damp sweat on their bodies dried and the air had once again tu
rned cool, a wandering hand traced her calf yet again. A slow smile curved her lips, mischief on its edges. “Again?”
“And again and again and again.”
Chapter 19
Willow wanted to be elsewhere. Say, beneath the sheets of her husband’s bed. Like she had been the entire night. And morning. And afternoon. At this particular moment, even the library seemed like a splendid idea for a change of location. The cloakroom would also do. Even the linen closet was not entirely off limits. In truth, anywhere in Ambrose’s arms would do.
Instead, they were attending a masked ball. Whose she had failed to notice. Her mind was all misty and fuzzy, and Willow had breezed past their host and hostess almost as if in a dream. An airy nod had been her response when Ambrose had excused himself to converse with Lord Avanley, leaving her with Poppy, who moments after accepted a dance from a masked gentleman.
Willow snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman, aware a silly grin featured on her face. The bubbly texture and sweetness of the drink was just the thing to accompany her delighted mood. In fact, she hardly glanced at the tall young man who approached her, a wolfish smile planted on his mostly obscured face.
When she continued to feel the weight of his gaze on her, Willow looked up from her champagne flute, her gaze flicking over his silver mask. It covered everything from his hairline to his upper lip. He wore a black top hat over his hair. Did she know him?
“Can I help you, sir?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Are you the Duchess of St. Ives?”
The corners of her lips lifted. “That depends.”
His smile spread. “On?”
“What precisely do you want with the duchess?”
“To better our acquaintance, of course.”
His voice. It was familiar.
“You must not have met the duchess’s husband then,” Willow murmured. For then he would know Ambrose would not tolerate a gentleman bettering anything with his wife. Her eyes traveled back to where Poppy was dancing with a nameless lord.
“Oh, I’ve met the scurrilous beast.”
“Oh?” Willow turned to him, suspicion blossoming. “Then surely you would not be so wicked as to approach his wife without a proper introduction?”
He held a hand over his heart. “Ah, but we have been introduced, my lady.”
Recognition dawned.
“Lord Jonathan?”
He laughed. “Do you not just love masked balls? They are so fun.” He offered his arm. “Would you care to take a turn about the room?”
“Happily,” she replied, placing the tip of her fingers on his sleeve. Willow’s mind worked furiously. Now was the perfect time to bridge the subject of Holly and Lord Jonathan’s intentions towards Ambrose’s decree. If she could dissuade him from the marriage, it would be much easier to convince Ambrose to let the matter go.
“I must admit,” he began. “I am beyond pleased my brother married a woman equally as stubborn. I do believe you are good for him.”
A shiver shot down Willow’s spine.
“I’m thrilled you think so. I’m also quite amazed you’re not more concerned with your brother’s plans to auction you off. That does not bother you?”
“Ah, yes. Must say, never thought I’d be the victim of an arranged marriage.”
Willow scowled. “I cannot believe how blasé you are on the matter.”
Lord Jonathan cast a teasing grin her way. “Two women against my brother? If I am not concerned, my dear, it’s because I am certain you will change my brother’s cast-iron mind.”
“And you imagine that is wise?”
He winked at her. “I have lofty expectations.”
“Let us hope your expectations are not shot from the sky,” Willow said, her gaze searching for her husband in the crowd. “You know, if I fail to change his mind, there are other things I will stoop to.”
Lord Jonathan cast a curious look her way. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes meeting his with unflinching regard. “You should be. So consider this warning: do not marry my sister.”
“Or?” His perfect smile never faltered.
She let her gaze travel down to his nether regions before returning to catch his eyes. “Or you will be limping for some time.”
He shuddered. “Christ, woman.”
She tilted her head to the side, and her lips curled sweetly. “Nevertheless, you ought to know that I will devote my life to torturing you, as will both of my sisters. As will others who care for Holly. Shall I list all the people you can expect to partake in adding to your misery?”
He shook his head with a grimace. “No need for all that.”
“Then we understand each other?”
“As clear as day,” he murmured down at her, a smile once again curving his mouth. “You have sass, my dear, but for the record, I never had any intention of wedding your sister, no matter how delightful she may be.”
“You cannot know how relieved I am to hear that.”
“I imagine you are.”
Willow nodded, recognizing the sharp underlining tone of his voice. A charming devil he may be, but Lord Jonathan was not a man stuffed with straw. When pushed into a corner, Willow could quite easily imagine him to fight like a dog.
They stopped at the refreshments table. “I’m afraid the cantankerous one has spotted us,” Lord Jonathan said.
Willow followed her brother-in-law’s gaze, and sure enough, her gaze collided with her husband’s dark eyes. The impact was so strong it punched the breath from her lips. They bore into hers, hot and knowing. A warm flush spread through her body. There was no preventing rosy color rising into her cheeks.
“Am I to surmise from your pretty blush that the two of you are getting along well?” Lord Jonathan’s tone was dry with humor.
Willow forced air into her lungs and tore her gaze away from Ambrose. “As well as can be expected.”
“I suspect better than both of you expected. Just look at him. He resembles a bull about to charge.”
Willow felt a smile tug at her lips. “Tell me, have you also received a set of rules from your brother on how to behave?”
Something queer passed in his gaze before he chuckled.
“Is something funny?” Willow demanded.
“Tell me he did not draw up an actual set of rules?”
Willow rolled her eyes. “Ah, so it appears that honor is exclusive to me.”
“Indeed. I am not much of a rule follower, in any case.”
“It is more fun breaking them,” Willow agreed.
“Unfortunately, the fun is almost over.” His smile turned rueful.
She looked at him quizzically.
“The bull is almost upon us,” he clarified. “And he has eyes only for you.”
He has eyes only for you.
Willow tried not to react to those words, but inside her pulse was leaping against her throat. Because she could not help but react to those words. Because she could not help but feel the same way.
She had eyes only for her husband, too.
AMBROSE WADED THROUGH the crowd toward his wife and brother, his eyes never straying from Willow’s face. Candlelight shimmered on her pale skin, her lips curled into a small smile. Jealousy curled inside him, like a wave of swirling knives jabbing in his gut. It was entirely irrational, but damn it all to hell, Jonathan was the charming brother, the likable Griffin. Not anything at all like Ambrose.
He cursed at the direction of his thoughts.
From the moment he left Willow’s side—and he had barely managed that—he’d found his eyes returning to her, again and again, wanting nothing else but to toss her over his shoulder and return to his bed. Their bed.
Thoughts of her soft body pressed up against him, his lips against her bare skin, her wandering hands shooting every thread of his control to hell were never far from the surface. Bloody hell, he had almost lost all restraint and taken he
r home, expectations be damned.
But he’d managed to keep his head about him, even if the impulse had been hard to control. He’d been content to admire her beauty and bide his time until it was acceptable to leave.
He slowed as he reached them, capturing Willow’s hand and setting it on his sleeve. Her eyes lifted to meet his.
“Ambrose,” Jonathan said. “Good of you to join us. I almost did not recognize you without your mask.”
“Masks are for pups,” Ambrose drawled. “Though I am overjoyed to see you are trading your old haunts in for more respectable events, brother.”
“Nothing as mundane as that, I assure you, but since you married, these events have begun to hold more appeal.”
Ambrose scoffed.
Jonathan motioned to the crowd in way of explanation. “You have the entire ton convinced you are the besotted husband. Splendid work, old chap. You pulled the wool right over their eyes.”
Ambrose tensed. The urge to punch his brother swamped him. He did not require a reminder they were putting on an act, when, in fact, he had never been more in earnest. A fragile bond had formed between him and his wife. The last thing he wanted was for his brother to ruin that.
Not after last night.
Not after Willow had admitted to their mutual attraction. And certainly not after Ambrose was the most at ease he had been in ten years. He was determined to discover where their attraction, their dawning bond might lead them.
“The ton has nothing better to do than create wild stories to gossip about,” Ambrose said, clipped.
“What about me?” Willow queried to Jonathan, batting her lashes at Ambrose. “Do I resemble a smitten wife?”
His belly knotted. Suddenly there was no one else in the room—only her, only Willow. She smiled up at him, and his heart clenched. And for once, he didn’t give a damn. He welcomed the sensation.
“Oh, you are the personification of a loving wife,” Jonathan said merrily, snapping Ambrose out of his spell. “Such a charming creature you married, brother. You must be delighted to have fallen into the parson’s trap.”
“I did not fall; I was pushed over the cliff by father’s will.”
